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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635925">The Things We Lost, the Things We Found</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian'>LadyDorian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>60 Parsecs!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Broken Hearts, Dirty Jokes, F/F, Humor, M/M, POV Multiple, Roommates, Slice of Life, Slow Burn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:55:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,127</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635925</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyDorian/pseuds/LadyDorian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When his long-time roommate and best friend decides to move in with her fiancé, Emmet must put aside his reservations in order to find a replacement.</p><p>Arriving in town with little more than a few personal possessions, Baby is thrilled when an old acquaintance says she knows of a place he can stay.</p><p>A simple problem. A simpler solution. If only feelings were as easy to unpack as boxes.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Baby Bronco/Emmet Ellis, Deedee Dawkins/April Angelle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Muffins and Moving Trucks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey, everyone. So this is my Brommet Roommate AU. It's a little long and a little messy, but then again so are these boys' feelings for each other. The chapters will be on the shorter side, and will change POV, but that just gives me something fun to play around with. </p><p>Tags/rating will be updated where necessary. But for the time being, expect some dirty jokes and sexual innuendo.</p><p>I hope you enjoy the trip.<br/>-LD</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hey, Dee, you taking any of these pots and pans with you?"</p><p>Deedee finishes scrawling "FIGURE SKATING TROPHIES" on a large brown box and caps the marker, looking over her shoulder while Emmet stands in the kitchen and twirls two stainless steel saucepans in the air. "Why? Have you finished your love affair with Wolfgang Puck?"</p><p>"Oh, just thinking you might want to make your fiancé a romantic dinner of burnt chicken cacciatore sometime," Emmet says and sets the pans on the kitchen table with a metallic <em>clunk.</em> "Besides, I can always get a better set. I hear Alton Brown is still in fashion."</p><p>"Ha! Better save your money since you'll be footing the rent for one now. You know, they make some pretty cheap frozen lasagna."</p><p>Emmet wrinkles his nose at her, just fierce enough that she might see it with her back turned again. "Well that won't be a problem since I'll be getting a new roommate soon."</p><p>Deedee's hag-like cackle screeches above the squeal of the packing tape gun. "Sure, sure. You just need to find one worthy of the 'Emmet Ellis Seal of Approval'."</p><p>"And what might that be?" Emmet asks, adjusting his glasses for maximum disapproval. </p><p>The box signed, sealed and ready to be delivered, Deedee carries it to where the others sit in a pile by the door, stacked in the kind of haphazard pyramid that only the drunkest of architects could have pulled off. "Remember the time we went out for sushi and you asked the chef to list where all of the ingredients in a California roll came from?"</p><p>"Sushi isn't a roommate, Dee. And I'm allergic to shellfish, not people."</p><p>"You might as well be," Deedee says, dusting off her jeans and tightening the knot on her polka-dotted headscarf. "If you hadn't come into the diner every weekend for six months in a row, you never would have felt comfortable enough asking me to move in. 'Hey, baby, would you like to upgrade your living quarters perchance?' is how I remember it going."</p><p>"I didn't say it like that," Emmet scoffs. "I'm not some kind of horny Victorian gentleman."</p><p>"Yeah, well <em>I</em> thought you were coming onto me. Always making small talk in between grading papers. Ordering the turkey club with extra bacon. Everyone knows that's the horniest dish you can get at a diner. Aside from whipped cream-covered strawberry waffles. Way to lead a girl on."</p><p>"Don't get mad at me because you assumed moving into a two-bedroom meant we'd only be bringing one bed." He rummages through one of the kitchen cabinets and pulls out a few odds and ends. "You can have this muffin pan and the cookie sheets. They've seen better days."</p><p>"Like your love life?"</p><p>"Ha ha, very funny. Not all of us can meet their soulmates at the Punk Rock Roller Derby, you know."</p><p>She shrugs. "What can I say? I love a girl in a leather jacket with flame decals on her Harley. Speaking of which…" She tiptoes around the boxes one careful inch at a time until she reaches the window, sticking her head outside to scan the street below. "What's she doing down there? It can't take that long to load up a moving truck."</p><p>"She's probably cursing one of your end tables," Emmet says. "Or throttling a lamp because one of the bulbs looked at her funny."</p><p>Deedee turns and shoots him a sad excuse for a glare. "Hey, just because she wasn't entirely thrilled to meet you doesn't mean she's got anger issues. She just needs to warm up to people first."</p><p>"She spent the entire night at the bar giving me the stink-eye over her beer." </p><p>"Because you said socket wrenches were overrated. You know she works at a garage, right? You might as well have insulted her dead mother. Who's dead, by the way. In case you forgot."</p><p>Heaving a sigh, Emmet plods into the living room and tosses the bakeware into an empty box. "You got all your dildos packed?"</p><p>Deedee snorts. "Why? You want one."</p><p>"No, I think you'll be busy enough."</p><p>"A sex joke? Real classy, Em. You should save that for your next date. Or your next roommate."</p><p>If Emmet knew which box the dildos were in, he might have just thrown one at her. "I'm not going to sleep with my roommate. I didn't sleep with you, did I?"</p><p>"Only because you like dick," she says, arching her brows. "And I'm not talking about the strap-on kind."</p><p>"You know—" Emmet shakes his head at her, but laughs all the same. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you, Dee. Who else is going to crack raunchy jokes at the faculty Christmas party? Or play strip drinking games with me?"</p><p>"It's not like I'm leaving the country," Deedee replies as she weaves her way over to where he's standing. "I'm like, twenty minutes away by bus. And we can still get together on the weekends and play strip drinking games. There'll just be three of us now."</p><p>"No thanks. I can only take so many naked breasts in one sitting."</p><p>She gives him a playful punch on the shoulder before throwing her arms around him and squeezing like there's no tomorrow. Smiling, Emmet does the same, though with their height difference, it feels more like he's hugging a Barbie Doll to his chest. "I'll miss you too, Em," she says. "You were the best roomie a gal could ask for."</p><p>"Knock, knock, gimme a box." The door <em>whooses</em> open as April practically throws it off its hinges, unfairly strong for someone pushing five-foot-two. The snake tattoo coiled around her bicep seems to dance whenever she flexes her arm, and though Emmet has never had a taste for muscles or body art, his noodly frame can't help but shiver every time he sees them. </p><p>"We're almost done here, babe," Deedee chirps, releasing Emmet and rushing over to give her girlfriend a peck on the lips. "We've just got a few more boxes. And Emmet is giving us a muffin pan!"</p><p>"Oh great," April shoots a sideways look in his direction. "Now we can use all those bananas we got for something other than sex." She follows it up with a smirk and Deedee responds by slugging her in the arm, though, unlike when she'd done it to Emmet, April doesn't so much as move a millimeter.</p><p>"C'mon, let's get down to the truck," she tells Deedee. "Emmet can stay here and pack up a few more things. Can't have him pulling a muscle lifting all this crap."</p><p>"Oh, just because I almost dropped the coffee table, I'm a wimp, now?" Emmet sneers.</p><p>"No, you're a nerd," April says, "but that ain't the point."</p><p>"Just don't come running to me when you need to brush up on <em>Star Trek</em> lore for trivia night at the bar." He smirks right back. "Or when you need to reach something on the top shelf."</p><p>Emmet has never set foot in the state of Louisiana, but if the gators there possessed a fraction of April's temper—and the bite to match—he'd gladly strike it from his vacation plans for the rest of his life. "Well, I won't be here to open any pickle jars for you, so—"</p><p>"Hey—Hey—" Sensing danger in the air, Deedee steps in and tugs on the straps of April's overalls, as if that will be enough to stop her from tearing one of Emmet's limbs off. "Keep it cool for one minute. You promised me no more than two outbursts per day, and I already caught you yelling at some guy in a Prius for taking too long to turn at a stoplight."</p><p>"Well, what did you expect? He was in a <em>Prius."</em></p><p>"April…"</p><p>"Fine, fine," April holds up her hands. "I won't murder your best friend. Not while he's still helping us pack." </p><p>"See?" Deedee smiles. "I knew you had it in you." She dips down and gives April another gentle peck, but April quickly snatches her by the waist and tugs her closer, kicking off the start of a proper (if not uncomfortable) game of tonsil-hockey. They carry on like that for a good thirty seconds before Emmet ruins their fun with a sharp cough.</p><p>"Right, let's get this show on the road." Planting one last kiss on Deedee's cheek, April turns to Emmet and sees him off with a tip of her cap. "Catchya in a hot second." She smirks. "<em>Nerd." </em>Then, grabbing two boxes at once, she casually strolls out the door.</p><p>Emmet sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "You picked a great girl to marry, Dee."</p><p>"She's the best, ain't she?" With a quick swipe at her spit-soaked lips, Deedee picks up one of the smaller boxes, but stops just short of carrying it outside. "Hey, Em?"</p><p>"Yeah?"</p><p>"Try to find a nice guy to take my place. And don't be so picky. You never know when Prince Charming is going to walk through the door."</p><p>Emmet does his best to smile, despite the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes. "I'll make sure to put that on my flyers: 'Black twink seeks John Grant lookalike for roommate. Must like pasta and old sci-fi movies'."</p><p>Deedee grins. "That's the spirit! You'll have a new roommate in no time."</p><p>"Yeah, you're probably right," he calls after her. Though he can't ignore the tangle of knots in his stomach as he stares at the remaining stack of boxes, waiting to be carted off to a brand new place without him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Had to get in a John Grant reference for my dear friend <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ithinkwehitametaphor/profile">ithinkwehitametaphor.</a> If you don't know who John Grant is, let me direct you to <a href="https://youtu.be/Ux1fglC0aT0">this music video</a>.</p><p>If you liked this mess, please leave a comment or come chat with me on <a href="http://ladydorian.tumblr.com">tumblr.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Ticket to Paradise</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Baby makes the best of a bad situation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Shit." </p><p>His microwave burrito rapidly cooling, Baby stands on the curb and frowns at the slip of paper tucked under one of the van's windshield wipers, the word <em>VIOLATION </em>printed big and bold at the top, in the off chance the rest of the world wasn't embarrassed enough by the hunk of scrap sitting outside the 7-Eleven. Clearly in the loading zone, though he swears he'd only been gone about five minutes. Figures the guy in front of him had to spend forever picking his lotto numbers. Maybe if he'd just taken the scratch-offs like most folk, Baby wouldn't be here staring down the wrong end of a parking ticket.</p><p><em>Well, </em>he tells himself, <em>at least they didn't tow it. </em>He'd hate to have to tell April he's going to be late for drinks just because he was too stupid to read street signs properly.</p><p>He takes a huge bite of his burrito and slides the ticket out to survey the damage.</p><p><em>Fifty-one dollars? </em>Fuck, that's a pricey mistake. He can't afford to go around getting into trouble so soon after he just got here, even if his uncle had promised the van was clean and up-to-date on its registration before tossing him the keys along with a cassette tape of Skynyrd's greatest hits "for the road." Baby always had been a little gullible. And more of an AC/DC fan.</p><p><em>It's cool, no problem</em>. He'll get a money order from the post office tomorrow and drop it off at the courthouse first thing Monday morning. The cops won't be knocking on his door anytime soon.</p><p>The thought makes his mouthful of refried beans and cheese go down as smooth as rocks. It also reminds him that he should probably get the van out of there before someone slaps a <em>CONDEMNED</em> sticker on the window and calls it a public eyesore. </p><p>The bar will have better parking, he's sure. And hey, maybe they'll even let him keep it there overnight. Plenty of guys still catch a ride home after having a few too many. No questions asked. Right? </p><p>Baby looks down at the ticket again, then back at the van. He shakes his head.</p><p>"Shit."</p><p>*****</p><p>He'd been right about the bar having decent parking. Or maybe it did at one point, before Friday night had brought out every motorcycle-owner in the city, like someone cut up a bunch of magazine covers and made a collage all over the asphalt. The kid in him is jumping for joy at the sight of so many cool bikes; the adult in him is still frustrated at having to park two blocks away. But it's clear which side is the winner the second he turns the corner and sees April waiting there with a smile as big as the moon. </p><p><em>"Baby!" </em>She sprints down the street faster than a rocketship, throwing her arms open and hugging him so tight, Baby thinks he might have to get a spine replacement. "Holy shit, you got <em>huge!</em> Last time I saw you, you were just a baby rhino."</p><p>"An' you were just a garter snake," he laughs. "Now you're a python." Or a boa constrictor, whichever one is better at squeezing the life out of people. "You been liftin' weights?"</p><p>"Are you kidding? I only spent the past twelve years working out every day just so I could do <em>this—"</em> Quick as lightning, she yanks him into a neck-snapping headlock and starts grinding her fist against his skull, and if Baby's curls weren't already bright as flames, he's sure they'd be glowing like a campfire, hot dogs and marshmallows sold separately.</p><p>He laughs hard enough he can feel it in his toes. "OK, OK, I give! No more!" But April is dead set on rubbing him bald. Maybe she'd taken up work as a toupee salesman since the last time he saw her.</p><p>"No way, I been holding this noogie in forever," she says. "My therapist tells me it's important to express my feelings."</p><p>Baby stops his squirming. "Wait, yer seein' a therapist?" He's no historian, but he's pretty sure he remembers them swapping out all the self-help magazines in the guidance counselor's office for <em>Playboys</em> once. Not the good ones; they saved those for the piñata at Principal Johnson's retirement party.</p><p>With a piercing laugh, April finally lets him go, too little too late for his poor noogie-burned scalp. "Yeah, his name is Jack Daniels and he's got at least three shots waiting for you inside."</p><p>"Oh, um—maybe just one for now, and a light beer?" Baby says, smoothing his hair into something that doesn't resemble a tumbleweed. "I'm gonna hit the gym later an' I don't wanna fall off the treadmill." </p><p><em>"Pff—</em>figures you'd get a gym membership first thing after you rolled in," grumbles April. "You're gonna make my arms look like spaghetti, you keep bulking up like that."</p><p>"But...you always loved when it was spaghetti day in the cafeteria."</p><p>She makes a show of scowling at him, but like butter on top of a mountain of noodles, it melts into a smile before Baby can dig his fork in. "C'mon, let's go. You and me got some catching up to do." And, grabbing his arm, she tugs him gleefully towards the bar.</p><p>The inside looks like someone lit a match in a cardboard box, only this box is full of women in denim jackets and vests, laughing around their booths and tables as classic rock plays in the background. Baby thinks he might have seen a movie like this once, when he was a kid and his folks weren't there to shoo him away from the TV. It usually ended with a few fistfights and someone getting thrown into a wall of liquor bottles, but instead of growling a harsh, <em>"We don't serve your kind here,"</em> the bartender just smiles at them and kindly asks, "Hey, April, what's good tonight?"</p><p>"Hey, Mo, can we get two shots of Jack and two Bud Lights?" April says as they take their seats in the corner. "My friend here just got in and we're looking to tear shit up."</p><p>"Oh, no, no tearin' up for me," Baby tells the bartender. "I gotta keep my ears dry."</p><p>"You mean your nose clean?" She laughs.</p><p>Panicked, he shakes his head. "No, I never done coke in my life, I swear." April giggles. </p><p>"He's cool, Mo. You'll be seeing a lot of him if I can work my magic. He was never good with peer pressure."</p><p>Baby chuckles nervously and eyes the gleaming hoop in the bartender's nose. The bartender smiles back. "Coupl'a drinks coming right up." Then she walks away, leaving Baby to stare in awe at the owl tattoo stretched from one shoulder to another, its eyes watching him above the back of her tank top. He thinks he might have seen that somewhere, too, though he can't remember if it was from a rock album or a blacklight poster. Either would have been totally badass.</p><p>April taps him on the shoulder. "I know you're not ogling one of my favorite bartenders. You can't have changed that much since high school."</p><p>Well, it's not as if he has much else to look at in here; he's probably the only guy that's sat at this bar since it was built. "Nah, it's cool, I just—I never been in a lesbian biker bar before. Or <em>any</em> biker bar. Do you all get in fights with switchblades and crack pool sticks over punks' heads?" He asks, half-anxious and half-excited. Though he tries to hide the excited part.</p><p>"Why, you wanna go a few rounds?" She smirks. "I might know some people."</p><p>"N-No—I meant—I just—"</p><p>"Relax, Baby," April laughs, and nudges his leg under the bar. "Everyone's pretty chill here. Some of the girls and me'll do fundraisers for the children's hospital like twice a year. Used to take the kids for rides around the block, but they won't let us anymore."</p><p>Baby frowns. "Why? 'Cause they're homophobes?"</p><p>"Nah, turns out exhaust fumes are really bad for people with respiratory problems."</p><p>"Oh. Guess I wouldn't know." He can barely think of the word <em>respiratory</em> without his brain choking on its tongue. "Still, it sounds like fun." </p><p>He's about to ask her what other things bikers do for fun—besides bike stuff—when the bartender shows up with their drinks. She sets them down, gives April a quick wink, and then she's off again, owl wings flapping hypnotically. Baby picks up his bottle of Bud and turns to April.</p><p>There's a smile on her face wider than he can stretch his arms. Her eyes twinkle like glass under the match-lights, and if her dimples were marbles, he thinks he could put them in his pocket and save them for later, to cheer him up with a game or two when he's feeling sad. "What's up?" He chuckles. "I got a booger hangin' from my nose or somethin'?"</p><p>"No, I just—I can't believe you're really here," she says. "The two of us back together like we used to be. Drinking beer out by the old smokestack. Stashing porn mags in the woods. Hey, remember when I bragged about giving you head under the bleachers so that bimbo cheerleader would get off your dick? Or when I told you gravity was a myth created by the FBI so you wouldn't feel bad about skipping physics class with me?"</p><p>"Mrs. Barth did say she'd never seen a dumber answer on a test." Or a more hopeless student. "It's a miracle we both didn't flunk."</p><p>April raises her shot glass. "Long live the D+ Club! <em>Au diable les haineux!"</em></p><p>"Bone jar!" </p><p>Laughing, they clink a toast to poor grades and horrible pranks before throwing the shots back, Baby's throat burning like he'd swallowed hot lava. It's been a while since he's had a taste of the hard stuff. And it's not like they're teens anymore, chugging whatever cheap crap they could swipe from their folks' liquor cabinets. Ah, the good old days. "So, whatcha been up to?" He asks, chasing his Jack with a soothing sip of beer. "Hit any mailboxes with baseball bats lately?"</p><p>The smirk that pulls at April's lips makes him wonder if his joke had been more than that. It also makes him glad he doesn't have a mailbox for her and "Jessie the Slugger" to hammer to a metal pulp. "You know that girl I'm always talking about?"</p><p>"The one you said was better than your granny's jambalaya?" A hell of an accomplishment, considering MawMaw Angelle's jambalaya could kick the crap out of every other dinner in the old neighborhood. "It's Dina, right? Dottie?"</p><p>April's smile grows even bigger. "Her name's Deedee. Wanna see a pic?"</p><p>"Heck yeah! She's gotta be awesome if she could get you to fly straight."</p><p>She gives him a playful punch in the arm before reaching into her back pocket for her phone and quickly tapping at the screen. "Here—" She says as she forks it over. "That's her." </p><p>A photo of a blonde girl with bright red lipstick and a matching headscarf smiles up at him. Baby gives a low whistle. "Wow, she's real pretty. How'd a girl like you get so lucky?"</p><p>"I ran into her at the roller derby. Literally. Then I ran into her some more. And now we're getting married. It's crazy how stuff can change so fast."</p><p><em>Yeah, </em>Baby thinks, <em>just a little too crazy.</em> April had always seemed more the type to crash a wedding than have one herself. She doesn't even look all that different to him, sitting there with her cap and her leather jacket like they're on their way to ditch class and eat KFC out by the train tracks. Though she is smiling a lot more, and it doesn't seem to have anything to do with egging the cars in the faculty parking lot. Guess this Deedee really is all that great. "Can I flip some more?" He asks, pointing to the phone. "Or do you got, like, nekkid pictures on here or somethin'?"</p><p>"Nah, go right ahead," she laughs. "Unless you think photos of custom bikes are scandalous."</p><p>Sure, maybe if he was a hot rod. </p><p>Smiling, he starts to cycle through the photo album. There's Deedee again, in a diner booth with a burger and fries in front of her. Then a motorcycle. Another motorcycle. A picture of a sugar skull tattoo. More bikes. Ah—finally, a selfie of the two of them, grinning with a bright blue sky overhead and a handful of trees in the corner. They're...in a field? At a park? If it's somewhere close, maybe April can take him there. It'd be nice to see something pretty and green that wasn't streaking by the van window at seventy-five miles per hour.</p><p>But pretty green things aren't all that catch his eye.</p><p>Hovering above April's shoulder is a man's face, slim with a broad nose and cheeks as smooth as silk. His skin is a shade darker than hers, his curls a little less curly. Brown eyes burn with disgust behind a pair of black-rimmed glasses, but no matter how hard he scowls at the camera, Baby can't keep the thought from popping into his head:</p><p>
  <em>Shit, he's gorgeous.</em>
</p><p>He can feel his cheeks start to heat past the boiling point, and quickly flips to the first photo before passing the phone back with an innocent smile. "Yeah, she—she looks like a great gal. You think I can meet her in person?"</p><p>"Fuck yeah you can. You're gonna be in my wedding. Least I can do is introduce you to my bride first."</p><p>"Wait, I'm in the wedding now? Like <em>in</em> in the wedding?" As if the parking ticket hadn't been a big enough surprise. "Do I gotta wear a tux and a cucumber—one a'those fanny pack-lookin' things??"</p><p>"Please, my Papa don't even own a t-shirt that ain't covered in grease stains," she laughs. "What the hell's he gonna do with a tux?"</p><p>Baby shrugs. "Get remarried?"</p><p>"Papa? He never really dated much after my Mama died. Like to think it was 'cause she was the love of his life, but he was probably just too busy with running the shop to care. Arnie swore he'd never do that shit again after his second divorce, and Antoine and Alphonse would rather pop bicycle chains than pop the question to their girlfriends." Her cheerful lips wither like a dried-up flower, and, looking down at the bartop, she picks up her bottle and takes a sip. "Guess I'm the only one who ain't fucked up yet."</p><p><em>Nah, not by a long shot. </em>Not by his standards. "Hey," he says, reaching to take her hand. "You're not gonna fuck this up at all, A. An' if you start gettin' cold feet, just think about me at your reception, runnin' from all the zookeepers who wanna put me back in the penguin habitat."</p><p>She chuckles and gives a squeeze. "Thanks, Baby. And you don't have to wear a tux if you don't wanna."</p><p>"I mean, maybe if they make them in green…"</p><p>They laugh like it's nobody's business, like the world is ending and all they've got left are dumb jokes and Bud Lights and memories to keep them company while they wait for the zombies to come and eat their brains. Going out in a blaze of glory like they always hoped they would. Before he went and ruined everything.</p><p>He forces his smile to stay put, even as April turns back to her phone and begins tapping away. "Hey, give me your address. I wanna send you an invite. They're fancy as fuck, got black lace on 'em and everything. We ain't rich but we splurged a little where we...could..."</p><p>Maybe it's his leg jimmying up and down like a jackhammer that does it, or the sound of him scratching at his beer label, or maybe she's just got some sort of internal radar for this kind of shit. But the second she looks up, her voice trails off and her eyes narrow, and if she had old Jessie the Slugger with her, Baby is sure he'd be in for a good bonk on the noggin. "Wh-What?" He stutters, because playing dumb has never failed anyone.</p><p>"Baby…" She says, in a tone just calm enough to match her death-stare. "What have you gotten yourself into? I can smell your sweat from a mile away."</p><p><em>Shit. </em>He knew he should have changed shirts before he came here. "I-I mean—I didn't shower yet if that's what yer askin'." It's not his fault his pits burn through deodorant like freshly-poured salt on a slug.</p><p>His lame excuse only makes April's eyes glow hotter. "Remember the time you swiped my chocolate cake when I went to go change my maxi pad during lunch?"</p><p>It was a tampon, actually. And she'd stuck it behind her ear like she was off to have a smoke in the girls' room. "Umm...maybe?"</p><p>"And you swore you didn't do it, even though there was frosting all over your face?"</p><p>"I—No."</p><p>"And when I pointed it out you tried to say it was leftover taco sauce from the day before?"</p><p>"What, taco sauce is hard to get off," he says. "'Sides, what's that gotta do with anythin'?"</p><p>"Point is, there was no taco sauce then and there ain't any now. So you better tell me what's up before I decide to mail you a box of spiders."</p><p><em>Double shit.</em> The box of spiders trick was always his least favorite. "OK, OK," Baby holds up his hands in defense. "Just...promise you won't get mad." Though he might as well be asking a dog not to bark at the mailman. He takes a deep breath. "I haven't found a place yet." </p><p>The expression on April's face morphs from shock to disbelief to rage so fast, Baby is amazed she doesn't end up pulling a muscle. <em>"What."</em></p><p>"You promised you wouldn't get mad!"</p><p>"I didn't promise shit. Why the hell did you come up here before you even found an apartment?"</p><p>"C'mon, A, you know I had to get outta there. Livin' with my uncle was just…" Like driving a flaming bus into a wall of beer cans and stolen VCRs. <em>"Hard. </em>And findin' a place ain't exactly a slice of pie, either, now that everyone wants credit scores and background checks an' stuff."</p><p>April angrily throws back another swig. "Fuck anyone who tries to hold that shit against you. You did your time. You shouldn't have to spend the rest of your life kissing up to strangers who won't even treat you like a human being. Ain't like they never made a mistake before." </p><p>Baby wants to tell her there's a difference between making a <em>"mistake"</em> and, say, forgetting to cook the mac in a pot of mac-and-cheese. But every time he thinks about it, his stomach clenches and his conscience kicks at his brain until all that's left is a steaming pile of regret. And suddenly the smiles seem useless, the hope hopeless, a thousand miles still not enough to put the past behind him. Maybe it never will be. "Yeah, well, that's just how shit is," he sighs, and chases his sadness with a long sip of beer.</p><p>But April has never been the pitying type. Not like Baby would ever ask for it. "You know what?" She says. "Grab your shit, you're staying at my place."</p><p>His heart pounds against his ribs like a drum machine gone haywire. "What? <em>No</em>—I mean—you just got engaged. I don't wanna empose or nothin'."</p><p>"It's fine, Dee will understand. I'll pick up an air mattress at the camping store after work tomorrow, if you don't mind crashing on the couch tonight."</p><p>"No, really, it's cool. I, uh—I got somewhere for the time bein'."</p><p>She laughs. "What, is the gym gonna let you sleep on a weight bench? Or did the construction company set you up with a comfy backhoe?"</p><p>"No, it's—a motel room. Cheap, out by the airport. I paid for two weeks already, so that should give me plenty a'time to find somethin' permanent." He flashes her a smile as shaky as a three-legged table. "I really appreciate the offer, though."</p><p>"Two weeks, huh?" Humming softly, April lowers her gaze and begins tapping an ominous beat against the counter, clearly considering how she can chew him up and spit him out again without damaging any of her fillings. But just as Baby is prepared to accept his fate as human bubble gum, she looks up and calmly says, "Y'know, I think I could get you a place in less than that."</p><p>"Wait, <em>really?" </em>Bazooka Joe be damned, he could leap onto the bar and kiss her right now. <em>"How?"</em></p><p>"Let's just say I know a guy. Last I heard he was hard up for a roomie."</p><p>Baby furrows his brow. "Another biker?" Should he bring a pool cue and a switchblade?</p><p>April laughs so hard, she almost chokes on her beer. "Nah," she coughs, "he used to live with Dee before we moved in together. They've known each other for years."</p><p>"Ex-boyfriend?" That could get messy.</p><p>"Maybe, if he was into chicks."</p><p><em>Oh. </em>That could <em>definitely </em>get messy. "What—What's he look like?" Baby asks, fingers crossed that he's nowhere near as attractive as the guy in the photo.</p><p>April shrugs. "Like a nerd. Or what a nerd might look like if their folks had a kid with a telephone pole."</p><p>The image is more confusing than helpful, but Baby doesn't really mind; he kind of likes telephone poles. They were all the rage before cell phones. "I mean, whatever he looks like is OK with me, long as he's not mean." He frowns. "He's not mean, is he?"</p><p>"No, just annoying. But you never stole his best friend so he'd probably be a lot nicer to you." She fiddles with one of her curls, takes another drink. "Anyway, I can't see anyone jumping at the chance to live with him, so he'd probably let you stay there no fuss. Plus, you're my friend and Dee is his friend—that practically makes us family."</p><p><em>Family. </em>Now there's a word Baby hasn't thought of in a while. Not since April had bought him a set of plastic army men and a pack of firecrackers for his sixteenth birthday. Or all the times she'd invited him over for dinner, or patched him up with Band-Aids and frozen peas when things at home got too rough. He remembers dancing in the parking lot after they'd been kicked out of junior prom, hearing her cheer from the stands during his football games, having camp-outs in the field behind her house. The way she'd screamed at him the last day he saw her: </p><p>
  <em>"How the fuck do you think you can do this to me!"</em>
</p><p>And he'd cried right back: </p><p>
  <em>"I'm sorry, A. They're family."</em>
</p><p>He blinks the tears from his eyes and says, "You really mean that? You think your friend'll let me stay?"</p><p>"Please, once I turn on the old Angelle charm, he'll be carrying your boxes in by the dozen." Her smile seems to flicker for a second, though Baby writes it off as just a trick of the light. "Gimme a couple days to talk to him, though. Y'know, to iron out all the details. Then by next weekend, we'll be throwing you a housewarming party. With cake and balloons and tattoos—" </p><p>No sooner has the word left her mouth than she snaps her lips shut, eyes shifting away as she grabs her bottle and takes a huge gulp. "Shit, sorry," she mutters under her breath. "I forgot you're…not a fan of sharp things."</p><p>Yeah, that might be a little of an understatement. "Don't worry, it's cool," Baby smiles. "But I'll still have some of that cake, though. 'Specially if it's chocolate."</p><p>Slowly, April turns and flashes him a smirk too devilish for the devil himself. "No taco sauce this time?"</p><p>"Cross my heart."</p><p>"Attaboy!" She laughs and pops him in the arm again. "Now how about another shot? For old time's sake? No, wait—for <em>new </em>time's sake." Baby eyes her curiously as she raises her beer. "To my best friend, Baby, and the start of his brand new life. May your cake always be bountiful."</p><p>Her smile glitters with more promise than Baby could ever hold in his heart, and if enthusiasm was a disease, he's certain he'd still be grinning from six feet under. "What the hell, let's do this." If he's going to have a new life, he might as well start it off right.</p><p>*****</p><p>Turns out two shots and three watery beers aren't nearly enough to make a two-hundred-and-thirty-something-pound man fall off a treadmill. Though Baby finds he can't get in quite as many biceps curls as he'd wanted. Blame it on April punching him so many times. <em>One for every birthday I missed,</em> is what she'd said, but he'd lost count after ten, along with all sensation in his upper right arm. Those pythons of hers were no joke.</p><p><em>Can't wait to see how much she can lift, </em>he thinks as he exits the gym. Maybe they could have a contest. Maybe he'd even let her win.</p><p>"Hey there."</p><p>The deep voice echoes through the darkness, stopping him dead in his tracks. Turning towards it, he points at his chest. "Who, me?"</p><p>There's enough light shining through the gym's front windows to paint a decent picture of its owner. He's a little on the older side, with salt-and-pepper hair and a beard to match—a silver fox, was it called?—and it doesn't take Baby long to realize he's seen the guy before, crushing the butterfly press like it was a piece of paper. A lit cigarette dangles from his lip—stupid, in Baby's opinion. He's never understood how people so concerned with their health could act so...unhealthy. Even if he himself had been living off of protein bars and convenience store food for the past week-and-a-half. <em>Say la vee,</em> as April would say.</p><p>The guy blows a thin stream of smoke in the opposite direction and flashes him a smile. "I saw you out on the floor back there," he says. "You were working that tricep machine so hard, I thought you were gonna break it." Chuckling, he sticks out his hand. "Name's Roger, by the way."</p><p>Baby takes it and gives a timid shake. "I'm Baby."</p><p>"Baby, huh? You come here a lot?"</p><p>Oh, he knows what's going on; he can see it speeding down the street like a horny bus. "I, um—I'm new here," he replies shyly. "I was just heading home for the night."</p><p>"That's a shame. I was hoping you'd want to get a drink with me. I know a club nearby, pretty nice joint. Of course, we'd have to run to my place first so I can get changed." He gestures to his gym clothes. "But I promise it won't take long."</p><p>Like he hasn't heard that one before. Or at least something like it. "S-Sorry, but it's kind of late."</p><p>"That's OK, the club's open until three."</p><p>"I just showered, though. And I got work tomorrow at five." That usually has a fifty/fifty chance of working, depending on how slick the guy thinks he is. And how easily Baby finds himself bending.</p><p>This guy, thankfully, is no Vinnie Barbarino. Stubbing his cigarette out on the bottom of his sneaker, he gives Baby another smile and says, "Well, maybe some other time. You know where to find me."</p><p>"Yeah, sure thing. Bye now." And with that Baby hurries away, before he ends up with another unwanted number in his contacts list.</p><p>*****</p><p>There's a sign in the lot outside the train station that says "PARKING FOR RIDERS ONLY," but Baby doesn't think anyone will make a fuss if he leaves the van there until morning. He could be halfway to the city for all they'd know, working the graveyard shift as a doctor or security guard or astronomer, whatever jobs might require way too much attention to detail at 4AM. He'd much rather have his beauty sleep, the few hours of it he can squeeze in before he's up by seven, off to some cheap diner for breakfast and bathroom while he contemplates the best way to pass his time. The gym is always a solid option—he <em>does</em> have a small taco truck's worth of burritos to work off. And there's usually a Starbucks nearby, or a strip mall to browse. He picked out a nice paperback at one of the local bookstores the other day, and had made it all the way to chapter four when the staff asked him to "<em>Please, sir, either buy it or leave"</em>. No matter how he looks at it, he really has no excuse to be bored.  </p><p>He parks in a shadowy spot near the end of the lot. Double-checks the locks on the doors, rolls up the windows. Makes sure there are no people waiting on the platform before unbuckling his seatbelt and climbing through the curtains into the back of the van. He even manages not to hit his head on the roof for once. Take that, brain damage. Who says tall people aren't capable of cramming themselves into a space the size of a milk carton? Of course, the stacks of boxes piled up around him aren't much help, but he's had plenty of practice by now, not counting all the times he and April had fought their way through every tube and tunnel in their town's McDonald's PlayPlace. It's not their fault the manager banned them for life; french fries just tasted better when they were eaten while zooming down a slide at the speed of light.</p><p><em>Maybe we can all go out for Big Macs next time,</em> he thinks to himself as he plops down on the old twin mattress shoved against the wall and begins to take his boots off. His t-shirt is next on the list, followed by his jeans, both folded as neatly as he can accomplish, which, in the dim glow of his cell phone, isn't very neat at all. But it'll do to keep most of the wrinkles out for tomorrow. He's not looking to win any fashion contests. </p><p>With his stylishly cheap Wal-Mart clothes smoothed out and set aside, Baby turns to the wall of boxes across from him, towering up to the ceiling like cardboard spires. He'd rigged the van's back doors with a plastic crate of dumbbells and some resistance bands—for extra security—though there's not much here he'd end up missing if it happened to get jacked. More cheap clothes and dollar romance novels, classic rock CDs, an assortment of half-working kitchen appliances, like a coffee pot with a broken handle and a toaster whose favorite color was apparently black. But the box on the very top of the pile—if he could strap it to his face so it never left his sight, Baby wouldn't think twice about crossing the street blind. </p><p>Smiling, he pulls it down and carefully opens the flaps. "Hey, Ted, sorry I had to leave ya by yerself again," he whispers. "It'll just be a few more days. Promise."</p><p>The stuffed bear stares quietly from its place inside the box, beady eyes twinkling when Baby picks it up and hugs it to his chest. "Hope ya weren't too lonely in there." But he knows Ted couldn't be. He's got friends; he's got a tin can of half-exploded army men and a worn-out Soviet Socker action figure to keep him company, and the shoeboxes full of letters April had sent over the nine years Baby was in prison. It doesn't matter if his little bear eyes can't read them; Baby has always been happy to tell him everything.</p><p>"I had a blast with April tonight," Baby says as he turns the screen off on his phone and huddles under the blanket with Ted in his arms. "We talked a lot about the old days." He pauses for a moment, then gives a soft laugh. "Yeah, we talked about that too. An' then she dared me to arm-wrestle the buffest lady in the bar. I won, of course. But I bought her a beer afterwards to show no hard feelings."</p><p>A car fires up its engine in the distance. A siren wails. Baby shuts his eyes and nuzzles his face against Ted's fur, pretends he's not a scared child anymore, praying for a flashlight in the dark. "Y'know, April said she knows a place we can stay. With one of her friends. We won't have to do this anymore. We can finally have the life we always wanted."</p><p>He hugs Ted tighter than all the treasure in the world. "Everythin's gonna turn out alright," he murmurs. "You'll see. We don't got nothin' to worry about." And when he falls asleep, he dreams of a comfy bed and hot dinner on the stove, and the angry glare of a man too pretty to be anything more than a fantasy.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hey all, hope you liked this chapter. I've been having fun playing around with different POVs/writing styles...please don't fault Baby for using too many metaphors, that's just how his brain thinks. And please remember that if you park in the Loading Zone in Philadelphia, you will get a $51 ticket and potentially towed. It's not fun.</p><p>Also, I used Google translate for April's French, so please correct me if you speak French.</p><p>If you liked this, please leave a comment or come chat with me on <a href="http://ladydorian.tumblr.com">tumblr.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Sucker Punch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Emmet searches for a suitable roommate but April wants a favor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hey, Em, look—" Deedee stabs a finger at the black sky beyond the streetlamps. "It's a shooting star. Hurry up and make a wish."</p><p>The tears on his cheeks are icicles, his sniffles puffs of smoke in the winter night. Choking down another lump of phlegm, he lowers his head and hugs his knees tighter to his chest. "It's not," he mumbles. "Can't see anything with all the light pollution around here."</p><p>"What? No way. I totally saw it. It took a right turn at Pluto and didn't even bother to signal."</p><p>"Uh-huh."</p><p><em>"'Pssh—</em>nice try, Dee'," she says in her most cartoonish imitation of his voice. "'But everyone knows you can't see Pluto without a fifty million dollar telescope and permission from NASA to use your toilet as a satellite dish'."</p><p>Emmet digs his toes into the step below and says nothing. </p><p>"Well, <em>I</em> saw a shooting star," she tries again, scooting close enough so their bodies are squished together like two shivering lumps of meat. "And if you're not going to make a wish, then I will. Now, let's see…" She hums to show Emmet she's thinking. "I wish...for my best friend Emmet...to be happy. How's that sound?"</p><p>Emmet huffs, "Should've wished for a pony."</p><p>"OK then, how about 'I wish for my best friend Emmet to smile'? No? 'I wish for my best friend Emmet to put a coat and shoes on'? I wish...I wish…" Her hum grows so loud, Emmet thinks the bees might have awoken from hibernation early. "I know! 'I wish for my best friend Emmet to come upstairs, eat ice cream and watch <em>Mystery Science Theater 3000</em> with me until we both pass out on the couch'."</p><p>Silence. Emmet sniffles, and Deedee gives a soft sigh.</p><p>"Y'know," she says as she curls an arm around him, "when I was twelve I was crazy in love with this kid from the boys' hockey team. Matt Millstone was his name. I'd pass him leaving the rink after skating practice, and every time he had a game, I was right there in the stands, cheering him on. I don't think he even knew I existed, but this silly part of me had it in her head that we might still get together someday, if I just kept wishing hard enough."</p><p>"Doesn't that negate your whole point?" Emmet asks, hopeless depression no match for the allure of being a smart-ass.</p><p>"You wanna hear the rest of the story?"</p><p>He shrugs. "Whatever."</p><p>Deedee claps him on the back. "That's the spirit! So, as I was saying...It was the night before my first big competition. I practiced every day for weeks, and my axels were flawless. I felt so confident, I thought, 'Maybe today's the day I say something to him. Maybe I can invite him to watch me skate tomorrow.' So I waited outside the rink for him to show up. And he did. Except he was with another girl. She was so pretty she could have been a model. There was no way I'd stand a chance against her. So I did what any preteen girl would have done."</p><p>"You prayed to the Backstreet Boys?"</p><p>"I went home, locked myself in my room, and cried until my dad told me to knock it off and get to bed."</p><p>"Makes sense," Emmet replies dryly.</p><p>"I can't remember how long it took me to fall asleep, but when I woke up it was pitch black outside. The moon was shining and the stars were bright, and when I looked out the window, I swore I saw one shoot across the sky. And I thought—right then and there—that if I were to make a wish, it would <em>have</em> to come true. There was just one problem..."</p><p>Her voice sparkles like the stars in her story, and, curious, Emmet turns his head. "What...was that?"</p><p>"I knew I had a choice to make. I could either wish for this stringy kid with helmet hair and nose zits and pubescent lip fuzz to finally notice me, or I could wish to win the competition tomorrow."</p><p>"So, which one did you wish for?"</p><p>Deedee smiles. "My name was on the trophy that week. It's in my room, by the way, if you wanna look at it or give it a good polish."</p><p>"Oh."</p><p>"Oh?" She arches her brows. "You actually <em>do</em> want to polish it?"</p><p>"No," Emmet says, and kicks his heel against the step. "Your story. What's the point? You won because you worked hard, not because of some stupid wish."</p><p>"Oh, Em…" Deedee gently pulls him down so his head rests atop hers. "The point is sometimes you have to think of yourself first. Look out for what you need, what's important to you. Don't let someone else dictate your happiness. You get what I'm saying?"</p><p>Icy fingers caress his tear-stained cheek, the rich perfume of coffee and diner food permeating every strand of Deedee's hair, bitter and salty and full of more comfort than all the world could offer. Emmet buries his face in it and slowly takes a breath. "I know," he says. "It's just...hard."</p><p>"It'll get better," she tells him. "You just have to give it some time." Turning slightly, she plants a delicate kiss on his forehead. "You think you're ready to come upstairs yet? I got <em>The Final Sacrifice</em> all queued up."</p><p>"In a minute. You go on without me."</p><p>"Alright, then. I'll be waiting on the couch with a warm blanket and a bowl of popcorn." She rubs the frost from his shoulders before standing and climbing the steps to the entrance. "Oh, and Em?"</p><p>Emmet wipes his nose on his sleeve but doesn't turn. "Yeah?" </p><p>"For what it's worth, he had terrible taste in cologne. Smelled like Calvin Klein drowned inside a McDonald's ball pit." And with that tidbit of information, he hears the front door swing open and her feet echo up the stairs.</p><p>Then, there are only stars and streetlights, twinkling in a watery haze across a black sky.</p><p>He blinks the tears from his eyes and wishes for the ache in his heart to vanish.</p><p> </p><p>The shriek of the alarm cuts through Emmet's sleep like a knife.</p><p>His skin is covered in goosebumps, his toes still numb from the winter chill. With an agonizing groan, he slaps the snooze button and tugs the sheets over his head, but the memory remains, bright and burning as the clock's red digits:</p><p>
  <em>7:45AM. </em>
</p><p><em>Perfect timing. </em>He loves it when his brain decides to throw salt on his wounds first thing on a Saturday morning, and just a few hours before he's supposed to get his shit together and meet Deedee for lunch. As if his stress isn't already pushing ten on the Fucked-O-Meter.</p><p><em>Christ,</em> how long has it been since he's had that dream? Weeks? Months? Yet every time it rears its ugly head, Emmet can't help but feel like it had all happened yesterday—the stars, the sky, Deedee's arm wrapped around him and her promise warm in his ears:</p><p>
  <em>"It'll get better. You just have to give it some time."</em>
</p><p>The alarm wails again, and this time Emmet hauls himself out of bed and shuts it off for good.</p><p><em>Right, let's get the interrogation over with, </em>he thinks, rubbing his forehead as though the gesture will sweep the dream from his mind. </p><p>He pretends not to notice how badly his hands shake as he reaches to put on his glasses.</p><p>*****</p><p>"So, how's the search going?" Deedee asks as they're halfway through eating brunch on the patio of their favorite cafe, having had her fill of small talk and friendly banter about their jobs and which color suit Emmet would prefer to wear at the wedding (funny, since April had once told him to stuff himself full of Peanut Chews and show up dressed as a piñata). It's the same question she's asked every week for the past several weeks, and one that's always answered with an irritated groan and a glance in the opposite direction. At least here, Emmet has part of a croissant sandwich to stare at as she <em>tap-tap-taps</em> the rim of her coffee cup while she waits for a response. </p><p>He stalls as long as he can before his eardrums threaten to strangle his optic nerves, then begrudgingly looks up. "What?"</p><p>Deedee's eyes narrow as if Emmet had committed the sin of switching her latte out for a decaf Americano. "You're doing it again," she says.</p><p>A lesser man might cower in the face of her glare, but after six years of stubborn standoffs and ridiculous arguments, Emmet fears her wrath like he would a shallow papercut. <em>All bark and no bite,</em> as Deedee liked to call his coffee preference. He folds his arms across his chest. "Doing what?"</p><p><em>"You—"</em> Deedee leans forward and waggles her spoon at him. "You're doing exactly what I told you not to do."</p><p>"You told me not to buy all those Girl Scout cookies once, but I clearly recall you eating a box of Peanut Butter Sandwiches every week for the next three months," Emmet retorts.</p><p>"This isn't about<em> cookies,</em> it's about <em>people,"</em> she says, sweeping her spoon out towards the other tables. "And people are more like ice cream."</p><p>"They melt if they're out of the freezer for too long?"</p><p>"No, they come in all kinds: vanilla, chocolate, strawberry, low-fat, gluten-free—"</p><p>"Well, you're just describing cookies now."</p><p>With a sigh and a roll of her eyes, Deedee draws back her weapon and sets it on her plate, where a small chunk of chocolate cake waits to be polished off. "You're being picky, Em. You need to find someone you can live with—to a tolerable degree—and let them move in."</p><p>All the coffee and croissant sandwiches in the world couldn't stifle the grumble that falls out of Emmet's mouth. "So? I don't want someone who's going to turn the place into a frat house or flake out on me every time the rent's due. Is there something wrong with that?"</p><p>"How many people have you seen so far?"</p><p>"Thirteen." He's not counting the college girl who'd spent the entire interview complaining that the apartment didn't have enough "clout" for her Instagram page. </p><p>Deedee makes a face like someone had snuck a jalapeño into her cup. <em>"Thirteen? </em>That's a baker's dozen of people you turned away. For what? Because they wore the wrong color shoes?"</p><p>"I had one guy who made it very clear that his vintage porn collection would be moving in with him," Emmet snips. "And this other guy—as soon as I mentioned that I teach high school chemistry, he wouldn't shut up about the time he and his buddies changed their school banner to read 'St. Penis Preparatory Academy'. At least when my students rigged my desk drawer to explode with elephant toothpaste when I opened it, I knew I had taught them something."</p><p>"OK, so you got a couple bad eggs," she says, much too solemnly for the foam mustache that decorates her upper lip. "But they couldn't all have been that unbearable. Maybe you were just exaggerating?"</p><p>Emmet is about to exaggerate himself a one-way ticket straight into the sun. "I—Look—" Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm just going to wait until the school year is over. Then I'll have the time to put more effort into this."</p><p>"Em, that's like three weeks away. You already had to foot the bill for all of May. If you can't find someone soon, you're going to have to downgrade."</p><p>She's right. A two-bedroom apartment? In this city? On his salary? He'd have a better chance of walking in to find the Aurora Borealis in his kitchen. </p><p>He blinks down at his sandwich again and toes at the brickwork under the table. "I know, I just—you know I have problems trusting people."</p><p>"Hey, you trusted me, didn't you?"</p><p>"That was...different. It was a long time ago, and you were always so nice when you dropped off my food."</p><p>"And you were always a good tipper," she winks. "It felt like I was moving in with a friend. Only my friends probably would have complained a lot more about my coffee consumption."</p><p>Emmet smiles. "We did go through twelve bags the first month. We would have broken the bank if we didn't find that bulk coffee roasters website."</p><p>"See? No matter what happened, we got through it together."</p><p>"Yeah, I guess you've got a point there," he says. "And your latte mustache always was good for cheering me up." </p><p>"Gotta keep that grin on your face somehow," Deedee replies before guzzling what's left in her mug. "Not that your face isn't gorgeous as it is. I bet tons of guys would be tripping all over themselves to suck it." She licks her upper lip clean and gives a playful wiggle of her brows.</p><p>"Shut up," Emmet laughs and tosses a balled-up napkin at her. It lands just short of grazing her cake, a testament to his stellar athletic skills.</p><p>"Hey! Don't attack my dessert just because you've got a beef with chocolate," she pouts, cradling the plate protectively. "What did chocolate ever do to you?"</p><p>"Cavities. That and I just don't like it."</p><p>"Weirdo." She crams the last piece of cake into her mouth. "Enjoy spending the rest of your Saturday with your chocolate-less sandwich and your Deedee-less apartment. I gotta get to work now."</p><p>"You closing the place down again?" He jokes.</p><p>"Very funny, Em. As much as I'd love the thrill of working twenty-four hours straight, I'm not sure I'd be able to keep my mouth shut when all the stoned college kids swing by at 3AM to order seventy plates of fries and tip me all in pocket change and stems." Grabbing her purse from the back of her chair, she pulls out her wallet and tucks two twenties under her mug, scrambling to her feet before Emmet can even open his mouth to complain. "Don't worry, I got it this time. You just focus on finding another roommate. I mean, I know I'm irreplaceable—" She feathers back her blonde waves, "—but I'm sure you'll find someone thirty percent as good."</p><p>Emmet scrapes his nails against the latticed tabletop and flashes what he hopes is a convincing smile. "I'd settle for twenty-five."</p><p>*****</p><p>The night he'd turned thirty-four—a cold, dark Monday just after winter break—Emmet had come home to find their apartment stuffed to the brim with balloons, color bleeding into every nook and cranny, it looked like a Pride flag had exploded all over the place. There'd been cake and streamers, and every five minutes, Deedee would sneak around behind him and shoot a confetti popper into his hair. Weeks later, he was still seeing those rainbows—on the floor, under the table, in his bed, whether his eyes were open or closed. It was magnificent and frustrating and amusing all at the same time. And he'd loved every second of it.</p><p>Now, when he steps through the front door, all that greets him is a lifeless beige, from the living room to the tiled kitchen, the wall above the sofa speckled with the few photographs that Deedee hadn't taken with her. There's a rectangle on the carpet where the coffee table had been, a memory of hot drinks on lazy mornings, takeout containers and bottles of beer, years that had passed in the blink of an eye. Emmet has to keep reminding himself that it's not <em>their</em> apartment anymore. One of them was eventually going to move on to better things, like marriage and children and dream jobs they couldn't pass up. It just so happened that Deedee had gotten there first. And Emmet can't help but feel like a piece of furniture that had fallen off the back of the moving truck.</p><p>He locks the door behind him and slips out of his shoes before flopping down on the couch, exhaustion drawing his head back until he's staring at the ceiling, as though his options were hidden somewhere in the web of scuffed paint and cracked plaster. </p><p>
  <em>Option one: move out.</em>
</p><p>Non-negotiable. He likes it here. It's close to his school and the main bus routes, isn't coming apart at the seams like his previous apartment, and the landlord is generally pleasant, even after Deedee had flooded the bathroom that one time they'd gotten so drunk Emmet had dared her to flush her bra down the toilet (in retrospect, he really should have known better).</p><p>
  <em>Option two: find a higher-paying job.</em>
</p><p>Right, as if years of grad school and a PhD in Organic Chemistry had been sufficient to get him there in the first place. If he wasn't <em>under</em>qualified, then he was <em>over</em>qualified, and he doubts anything short of an offer from an Ivy-league university would be enough to cover his rent <em>and</em> his student loans. So much for that pipe dream. Which leads him to...</p><p>
  <em>Option three: suck it up and accept the next person who responds to his advertisement.</em>
</p><p>Porn aficionado? Fine. Instagram influencer? Say "cheese." Cannibal? He hears lean calves make the best bolognese.</p><p><em>"Christ." </em>Emmet grabs a throw pillow and covers his face with it. </p><p>Well, at least Deedee will be thrilled to hear he's taking her advice. So thrilled, she might even throw him another party. With cake. And streamers. And enough confetti to bury him six feet under. At least he'll have something pretty to look at while he's rolling over in his rainbow coffin.</p><p>When he finally drops the pillow, his glasses are so fogged even his brain seems clear in comparison.</p><p>*****</p><p>The next few days breeze by like an exhausted tornado. </p><p>He sees a middle-aged woman with long hair and a banjo, manages to survive a riveting rendition of "Free Bird" before giving her the old "I'll be in touch soon." A young man with an infant strapped to his chest and a sob story about how "Janie got possession of the house" is relegated to the back of the list. Two female twins offer to share the room...among other things. Hard pass. For the first time in ages, Emmet feels relieved to be at work slogging through stacks of final exams. At least here he can focus on something other than broken promises and half-assed attempts at swallowing his pride.</p><p>He's sitting at his desk doing just that when his cell phone vibrates with what he's certain is another unfortunate opportunity. A quick glance at the screen and he knows he's in for a treat.</p><p><em>Annoying Angelle</em> reads the name on the display, along with a photo of April flipping him the bird. <em>Great. </em>He had wanted to end his day on a low note. "Yeah?" He answers.</p><p>"Hey, um...Ellis," comes a stiff reply. "How—How are you?" </p><p><em>Oh wonderful, April has been abducted and replaced with an alien clone. </em>Or maybe she's just gotten herself kidnapped, and is being forced to read her ransom at gunpoint. Either way, Emmet can't really bring himself to care. It's not like he has the cash to pony up anyway. "What is it, April? What do you need and what's the gentlest way I can tell you <em>No."</em></p><p>April barks a nervous laugh, its echo bearing the charm and subtlety of a screwdriver scraping against concrete. "What? I don't need anything. Why—Why would you think that?"</p><p>"April, click your tongue twice if you want me to call 911."</p><p><em>"Putain de merde…" </em>He hears her mutter under her breath before that sickly-sweet voice returns. "Like I said, I just wanted to check in on my best ner—bud."</p><p>If Emmet's eyes weren't connected to his skull, they'd go rolling out the door and straight into traffic. "Right. I'm hanging up now."</p><p><em>"Wait wait wait—"</em> She pleads just as he starts to lower the phone. "I lied. There is something I need your help with."</p><p>"Does it involve Deedee?" He asks flatly.</p><p>"No...Yes...I mean, it kinda helps the both of us."</p><p>"You didn't break her leg scissoring or something, did you?"</p><p>"You know what, Ellis? Fuck this," April growls. "I tried being nice but that clearly ain't workin'. So now we're gonna do things my way."</p><p>"Uh-huh," he holds the phone up with his shoulder and idly begins to pluck at his cuticles. "Let me guess, you're going to shank me with a screwdriver outside a Motörhead concert?"</p><p>"I <em>would</em> but they ain't playin' here anytime soon. In the meantime I'm cashing in on a favor you owe me."</p><p><em>"Cashing in?" </em>Last time Emmet checked, they weren't in Atlantic City and he wasn't the Golden Nugget. "Look, if this is because I said I was going to buy you a step stool as a wedding gift—"</p><p><em>"It ain't about the goddamn step stool,"</em> she shouts. "It's about all the shit you been giving me since I took your girlfriend away." Emmet can practically hear the veins bulging under her cap, accompanied by the muted chuckles of amused mechanics in the background. "Fuck, just—" She takes a deep breath. "Just come to the garage after work, OK? I really do need your help. And I promise I won't yell at you this time. I swear on a stack of timing belts."</p><p>Maybe if she had sworn on the final cut of <em>Blade Runner</em> Emmet would be more inclined to trust her. But he supposes, to car enthusiasts, the two are one and the same. He also supposes that he'll come out of this with a pair of ruptured eardrums, but it's not as if he can put off seeing April for the rest of his life. Not if he still wants to be Best Man at their wedding. "Fine. I'll be there in a couple hours."</p><p>"Bring me a burger while you're at it," April adds. "One of those fancy hipster ones. No onion, extra pickles, don't bother with the ketchup packets."</p><p>She hangs up before Emmet has the chance to ask if she wants fries with that.</p><p>*****</p><p>The sun is just beginning to set by the time he stumbles up to the garage with an overstuffed paper bag in hand and $16.87 gone from his wallet that he's probably never going to get back. Men and women in grease-stained clothing hop into their cars and pickup trucks for the night, peeling out of the parking lot one by one, until it seems only April's precious motorcycle is left. <em>Delilah, </em>if he remembers correctly. An oddly sensual name for a flame-and-skull-plastered deathtrap. <em>Road Rash Rachel</em> might have been more fitting. Or <em>Compound Fracture Cathy</em>. <em>Skull-Splitting Susan—</em>Emmet could do this all day. But he doubts April would be open for suggestions. Besides, it's not like he's the one putting his bones on the line to ride it.</p><p>He finds April perched on a low wall by the side of the building, one leg tucked beneath her in a giant middle-finger to the Gods of Proper Seating Etiquette. She tips her cap as he approaches, so there's no escaping the contempt in her eyes when she says, "Took you long enough. You bring the stuff?"</p><p>Emmet hands the bag over like a meat-slinging drug dealer. "No pickles, extra onions, right?"</p><p>"Ha ha, very funny," April spits, fishing out an unmarked burger and enthusiastically tearing at the foil wrapper. "If I bite into an onion, I'm taking a bite outta your ass next."</p><p><em>No, thanks.</em> Deedee had already divulged enough sordid details about their sex life to give him nightmares for decades to come. "Don't worry, they're both the same," he says. "I didn't feel like making things complicated." He's fully confident April is capable of doing that on her own.</p><p>Stripping off his messenger bag full of half-graded tests and beat-up notebooks, he takes a seat beside her, the paper bag acting as a buffer between them, in the off chance that Motörhead actually were to show up. "So…" He starts, reaching into the bag for his own burger. "You fix any hogs today?"</p><p>He's expecting nothing less than a four-star comeback, seasoned with a dash of sarcasm and a pinch of indignation for zest—only the finest here at Chef Angelle's House of 1000 Headaches. But instead of serving up the usual fare, April stares into the distance and eats quietly, the soft rustle of paper speaking louder than any insult. </p><p><em>OK, that's...something. </em>Is she dying? Is it brain worms? God, he hopes it's brain worms. "Um, are you—"</p><p>"Thanks for coming, by the way," she says, in a tone far too genuine for mollusks to reproduce. "I know we ain't the best of friends, but I really appreciate it."</p><p><em>So...alien clone it is. </em>Emmet shrugs and slowly unwraps his burger. "Guess I'm just a sucker."</p><p>"Yep," April says. "You sure are."</p><p>She falls silent again, still staring, still chewing, oblivious to the glower Emmet throws at her whenever she reaches a grimy hand into the bag to pull out another french fry. "You wanna tell me why you called me here?" He asks. It's not as if he has anywhere more important to be, like his bed or his shower, scrubbing the scent of motor oil from his skin. </p><p>April lowers her gaze and scrapes the toe of her boot across the ground below, though with her short stature, she looks more like a Kindergartner straining to step off the school bus. "You, um...you find anyone to rent your place yet?"</p><p>"Not yet." He chews his burger suspiciously. "Why?"</p><p>"An old buddy of mine just got into town recently. Real nice guy, needs a place to stay. I was thinking you could help him out?"</p><p>Oh, so <em>this</em> is the favor Emmet is going to decline. To be honest, he was expecting something with a bit more pizzazz. Like a request to model wedding dresses, or brainstorming the best way to ride Delilah into the courthouse without spending most of their honeymoon in lockup. "This friend of yours, is he another biker?"</p><p>April laughs. "Worse, he's a ginger." When the joke fails to hit its target, she quickly adds, "No, I don't think he's ever ridden a bike bigger than a ten-speed. Or maybe a tricycle." She gives another chuckle, but Emmet remains unfazed.</p><p>"So let me get this straight—" He says, dredging the bottom of the bag for a fry that April's fingers haven't touched. "You want me to let some random guy move into my apartment—no contest—just because you know him?"</p><p>"I <em>known</em> him since I was fifteen," she barks as she whips her head around. "We went to high school together, back in the bayou."</p><p>"Oh, so you partied and played drinking games and graffitied curse words all over the bleachers?"</p><p><em>"No.</em> We got a proper education. He was a real good kid. Still is. I talk to him every couple weeks."</p><p>Emmet wrinkles his nose. "Kid? How old is he?"</p><p>"Twenty-nine, you perv."</p><p>"And why can't this <em>kid</em> crash on your couch? Is second-hand furniture not fancy enough for him?" He reaches for another fry, but April slaps his hand away.</p><p>"Hey, that couch has been in the Angelle family for over thirty years," she says, shooting him a look that could burn toast. "My brother Antoine was conceived on that couch."</p><p>He coughs up a chunk of pickle. "And you let me sit on it? Please tell me you're joking."</p><p><em>"Pfft</em>—dumbass. I bought it at a thrift shop. But I'm sure someone's fucked on it if that makes you feel any better."</p><p>"Getting back to your friend…" Because Emmet would prefer to finish their conversation without vomiting all over the parking lot.</p><p>"Oh, yeah." April casually takes another bite. "He can't stay with us. I mean, I offered for the time being but he needs a more permanent place. He just got a job up here and they want him to start ASAP. 'Sides, don't think he'd fit on my couch. He's about as tall as you, give or take a couple inches."</p><p>"So...he's a biker <em>and</em> a basketball player?"</p><p>"C'mon, Ellis," she moans, "cut the guy some slack. Like I said, he's a good kid. He won't give you any trouble with rent or parties or any of that shit. We got a closet for an apartment and you got a spare room and Dee's old bed. Don't leave him out in the cold just 'cause you don't like me."</p><p>"Me not liking you has nothing to do with this." Well, it somewhat does, but that's none of April's business. "I'm not responsible for this guy's housing problems. I've never met him, I've never even heard you talk about him before. I can't just agree to let some stranger move in with me."</p><p>"Ain't all those other folks strangers, too?" April shoots back. "The ones you had come look at the place? You ain't known 'em as long as you known Dee, and you ain't known 'em as long as I known Baby."</p><p>Emmet's brows make a valiant attempt to fuse themselves together. <em>"Baby?"</em></p><p>"Yeah, that's his name. Baby."</p><p>"What, is that a gang name or something?"</p><p>April looks away again and shoves the last bit of burger into her mouth. "No."</p><p>"Look, April," he sighs, "I understand you're worried about your friend, but—</p><p>"But nothing. Meet him for yourself. Treat him like all the others. It's the least you can do."</p><p>"April—"</p><p><em>"Please, </em>Emmet," her Southern drawl cracks in desperation. "I swear I'll never ask for nothing more my entire life."</p><p>Sure, like he hasn't heard that kind of bullshit before. Or fantasized that he might live to see the day the great and powerful April Angelle would stoop to<em> begging</em> for his help. The devil on his shoulder could cum just thinking about what he can get out of this—say, a brand new coffee table, or a lifetime supply of those pine tree air fresheners, or maybe even a fancy telescope, perfect for viewing the big, helpless tears that tremble in the corners of April's chestnut-brown eyes—</p><p>But of course, it's the angel on his other side that wins out, gut-punching his conscience until it splinters into a pile of matchsticks. "Alright," he concedes. "I'll meet <em>Baby. </em>Just give him my number and—"</p><p>"He'll be at your place 'round seven Saturday night."</p><p>If Emmet could travel back in time, he'd slap himself in the face so hard future generations would feel it. "Great," he quips sarcastically. "I'll make sure to put out a cheese plate."</p><p>"Hey, whatever floats your canoe." Eyes drier than the Sahara, April balls up her foil wrapper and tosses it into his lap before shoving off to the pavement. "Trust me, Ellis, you're gonna like the guy," she tells him as she brushes the french fry crumbs from her jeans. "And he's gay, too, so there's something you got in common already."</p><p><em>Perfect, now I won't need to hide my buttplug collection. Or should I?</em> He's still workshopping that one when April turns and says, "I gotta hit the road now. I promised Dee I'd be showered by the time her shift is over." She jerks a thumb towards Delilah. "Wanna ride home?"</p><p>"On that thing? I'll pass."</p><p>He waits for a smartass comment, but April only shrugs, "Suit yourself," and strides across the parking lot to where her mistress waits. For a moment, Emmet just sits and watches. Watches her pull her leather jacket from one of the saddlebags and fling it on. Watches her switch her newsboy cap out for a motorcycle helmet. Watches her rev the engine and swing the bike around until she rolls up right in front of him. </p><p>"Oh, and gimme a call after he stops by," she shouts over the incessant puttering. "I can help move his stuff in." She gives a sly wink. "Seeya later, nerd."</p><p>With that as her parting gibe, April rockets off into the sunset, leaving Emmet behind to kiss her cloud of dust. </p><p>The smell of exhaust scatters in the breeze, the glow of taillights fade to a star on the horizon. Shades of pink and orange tangle together like the myriad of thoughts running through his head: </p><p>
  <em>Baby. Not a biker. 7PM. Saturday. </em>
</p><p>It's fine, he can do this. Maybe the guy won't be so bad after all. Or maybe he will be, and Emmet will just turn him away like the rest. It's not as if April is going to run him over with her bike if he does. Or tell Deedee how heartless he is. Or stop inviting him out for drinks, or kick him out of the wedding party, or—</p><p><em>"Fuck," </em>he mutters. "Fuck fuck fuck."</p><p>He pinches the bridge of his nose, only to find his fingers soaked in burger grease.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those of you who don't know about Peanut Chews, they're practically a staple of Philadelphia's candy diet, and if we're close friends I might even send you some one day. ^___^</p><p>If you liked this, please leave a comment or come chat with me on <a href="http://ladydorian.tumblr.com">tumblr.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. In a Van Down by the River</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Emmet meets April’s friend and makes a decision he hopes he won't regret.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Hey, Em, look—" The cheerful melody of Deedee's voice edges under the rustle of cheap plastic. "Check what I just found."</p><p>"Let me guess," Emmet replies, too wrapped up in his weekly battle with the kitchen trash to offer a cursory glance, "you found another moldy thong in the crisper drawer? Weren't we still trying to figure out how the first one got there?"</p><p>"I was drunk and for your information, this is <em>waaay</em> better."</p><p>"Better than a polka-dotted thong?" With one final tug, he manages to free the bag from its metal prison, the struggle having dealt it little more than a flesh wound. Chuckling, he turns his head. "Alright, Kojak, what have you got?"</p><p>Sharp as a tack, Deedee whips a photograph from behind her back so dusty and faded it could give all the moldy thongs in the world a run for their money. "Ta-da! Bet you never thought you'd see this mug again."</p><p>The plastic turns to grease in Emmet's trembling grasp. "Where—Where'd you get that?"</p><p>"It was wedged between the fridge and the oven," she says. "Probably since before the dinosaurs went extinct." She gives a devious giggle as she flips the photo around and starts scraping some of the grime off with her thumbnail. "I'm gonna cut his head out and put it on a voodoo doll. I'm pretty sure I got my old sewing kit from when I was in regionals—"</p><p>"Dee—" He swallows. "Please, just—don't."</p><p>Deedee pouts like a scolded child. "C'mon, Em. Don't even try to tell me—"</p><p>"<em>Dee." </em>The words grow heavy, pleading. "<em>Please."</em></p><p>Slim brows fusing into a sharp, menacing line, Deedee marches over and slams the photo into the open trash bag. "<em>Fine," </em>she growls as she spins on her heels and stalks off towards the hall. "I'm gonna go check the bathroom can again. Always one of your damn flossers clinging to the bottom. Like it doesn't know how to <em>let go."</em> </p><p>A loud slam crashes through the apartment, victory without bloodshed, despite the jagged wound that cuts into Emmet's heart. His head aches and his eyes blink through ripples of glass, but like the purest of fools he ignores the pain, and, tightening his grip, peers into the bag's shadowy depths. </p><p>Pale colors shine among old fruit rinds and nibbled pizza crusts—phantoms from another age, smiles that Emmet doesn't need to see to know they'd been part of something whole once, just like the rest of the garbage. </p><p>"Hurry up in there!" Deedee's muffled shout kicks him from his reverie. "I got a <em>Simpsons </em>marathon lined up for tonight and I don't feel like waiting while you fuck around with the broken dumpster lid for an hour."</p><p>Fingers twitching, Emmet snatches the photo from the bag and stuffs it into his back pocket.</p><p>*****</p><p>"You're late."</p><p>He frowns at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and pops another button on his shirt, hoping the extra inch of white tee peeking out from beneath the happy orange plaid will make him appear as intimidating as a parent on Back-to-School Night. "You're <em>late. </em>You're...late? You're—"</p><p>Had the tube of toothpaste not been shut away inside the medicine cabinet, he's certain he would have squeezed it until it popped like a pimple. </p><p><em>Fuck this. </em>Where the hell is the guy? Every time he taps his phone, another hour seems to pass, though the display reads only <em>7:23PM. </em>Twenty-three minutes too many, in his opinion. Call that strike one on <em>Baby-Not-A-Biker</em>'s application. It's bad enough his students are constantly tardy; he doesn't need that kind of slacker attitude in a roommate. Nevermind how often Deedee had left him waiting at home with cold takeout on movie night because "The bus was overrun by raccoons." Hey, it could have happened. </p><p>Ambulant raccoons aside, Emmet will grant the man a generous five minutes before he calls April and informs her she'll be needing to purchase a bigger couch. It's the very least he can do, since he sure as hell isn't going to throw his back out to help carry it in. </p><p>He's just finished running through a lovely list of upholstery patterns when—two phone taps and some grumbling later—the knock finally arrives.</p><p><em>Lucky bastard. </em>Shoving the phone into his pocket, Emmet shoots one last stink-eye at his reflection. Squares his shoulders. Rolls his sleeves up a fraction more. Really pictures himself arguing with Mr. So-and-So over his asshole child's test scores. <em>No, the atomic weight of Polonium is not "Marie Curie's tits".</em> There, he's ready. Just in time for the knock to grow louder.</p><p>"Coming!" He shouts as he storms into the living room and yanks open the door. "You're la—"</p><p>His blood freezes over in a heartbeat.</p><p>Standing before him is a man with fiery orange hair and wide blue eyes, and muscles so big the teddy bear graphic on his t-shirt looks like it's been flattened by a steamroller. His square jaw hangs limp as a sock, and if his face were to grow any paler, Emmet thinks he might have to call for a coroner. "I-I-I-I'm sorry—" The man stammers. "I know I'm late, b-but my locker at the gym got stuck, an' then I had trouble with the van, an' there was traffic, an' I couldn't find a place to park, and, and—" </p><p><em>How? Why? Where? </em>Every hair on Emmet's body seems to stand on end, like he's staring down an empty parking lot, about to test Newton's First Law with a shopping cart and a pile of bricks. A very large, very <em>ginger</em> pile of bricks.</p><p>"—an' I stubbed my toe runnin' up the steps, an' I went to the wrong floor by accident—"</p><p>"I didn't order a pizza."</p><p>The man stops his blabbering and looks all around him, as though he isn't sure if he's dropped a stack of cheese pies or simply stumbled upon a notoriously tacky porn set. Scratching the back of his head, he blinks his puppy-dog eyes apologetically. "Umm…S-Sorry. I thought you were Emmet Ellis? In 3B?"</p><p>Emmet quickly steps in front of the number on the door, though—invisible pizza boxes notwithstanding—he doubts the man could be that stupid. "Y-Yeah," he coughs out. "I'm...Emmet."</p><p>If he could have predicted his name would be the cure for idiocy, Emmet would have patented it years ago. "Oh!" The man exclaims, a dim lightbulb flickering over his head. "I'm Baby. Baby Bronco? April's friend?" He waits for a response before adding—with the most grandiose hand gestures— "She's short, curly hair, always wears a hat? Um…" The lightbulb struggles to stay lit. "She likes bikes and Motörhead?"</p><p>"Yeah, I know April. She...said you'd be coming." What she didn't say was that he'd be the size of a refrigerator, with a name that sounds like Fisher-Price had released a line of muscle cars for toddlers. <em>Baby Bronco? </em>Surely, this must be some sort of fever dream. </p><p>But the hesitation in Baby's eyes is too real, the way his curls slip between his tree-trunk fingers too intricate for even the wildest imagination to construct. "Oh. Good. For a second I thought…" Blushing, he slides his hand from his hair and bashfully offers it to Emmet. "It's, uh, nice to meet ya."</p><p>Emmet balks like he'd been asked to shake hands with a cactus. "Uh, yeah, come on inside." Lest one of the neighbors should catch them playing chicken with the English language. It's all fun and games until someone loses an <em>I.</em></p><p>"I, uh...sure." Ducking his head, Baby crams his fists into his overstretched jeans pockets and quickly shuffles through the door, barely managing to keep from bowling Emmet over with those ridiculously broad shoulders. Emmet pities any jacket naive enough to attempt to rein them in.</p><p><em>How does he fit down alleys? Or inside bathroom stalls? Does he knock people off of the escalator when he's going in the opposite direction?</em> All valid questions that buzz inside his brain as he watches Baby meander around the living room like a grizzly lost at a campsite, searching for a picnic basket to devour. He pauses in front of the couch, examines the framed photographs on the wall behind it. Looks to the TV and then the kitchen table before casting his timid gaze back to Emmet. "Is...somethin' wrong?" He asks.</p><p>Emmet stiffens. "N-No. Um...why do you say that?"</p><p>"Yer gonna let the bugs in if ya keep the door open."</p><p><em>Shit. </em>He hadn't even noticed his clammy palm still wrapped around the knob. "I...just wanted to get some fresh air in here," he shrugs awkwardly, shutting the door and crossing his fingers that Baby won't notice the nearby windows wide open with their curtains dancing in the summer breeze. "Do you want something to drink? I have water, and I made a pot of...coffee." A decent enough recovery, considering he'd temporarily forgotten the word for <em>caffeinated brown liquid.</em></p><p>"Yeah, um...coffee sounds good." </p><p>"Sure. Have a seat at the table and make yourself comfortable." Not that he wants to think of Baby getting comfy in his apartment; he just needs his giant body out of the way so he can make it through to the kitchen.</p><p>"How do you take it?" He calls over his shoulder while he fidgets with the coffee maker, its buttons having lost their friendly English labels in favor of the Klingon alphabet, dictionary not included. </p><p>"Two sugars, please," Baby replies. "An' just a splash of milk."</p><p><em>Two sugars and a splash of milk, coming right up.</em> He's already found the <em>OFF </em>switch—call that Step One. Now all he needs is to remember where the mugs are stored, spoon the sugar without spilling it, grab the pot by the right end, and reach for the milk instead of the carton of orange juice. <em>Easy peasy.</em></p><p>He puts together two cups of coffee that Deedee would probably spit in and carries them over to where Baby waits, hands folded politely atop the kitchen table. "Th-Thanks a lot," he says when Emmet sets the mug in front of him. "Haven't had a decent cup since I got here." And he gives a smile so shaky, Emmet fears it might level the entire building.</p><p>"Yeah, don't mention it." At least he'd managed to keep one cup OJ-free. Though Baby still bows his head and stares at it like he's waiting for arsenic to bubble to the top. Emmet might be picky by Deedee's standards, but he's certainly not a murderer. Despite how badly <em>some people</em> try to test that theory. Speaking of which…</p><p>Baby is pretty...<em>shy,</em> for someone who hangs around the personification of a baseball bat studded with rusty nails. He hardly looks up as Emmet takes the seat across from him, his big hands curled around the mug, threatening to swallow it whole. His forearms are hairy enough to require a landscaper, his bulging biceps free of even the smallest line of ink, and though Emmet hadn't noticed before, the closer he looks at his face, the brighter his freckles seem to shine, like stars popping through the pink light of dusk. They make his lips itch and send an unpleasant shiver down his spine.</p><p>Eager to drown his discomfort, he takes a sip of coffee, only to find it hot enough to sear his taste buds. He grimaces immediately.</p><p>"Oh, you should prob'ly try blowin' on it first," Baby tells him. "Cools it down a bit."</p><p>"Thanks, I'll—I'll remember that next time." Just like he's going to remember to stop taking April's calls. </p><p>Licking the sweat from the backs of his teeth, he casts his gaze to the tabletop and considers what he should say next, what would qualify as giving Baby a "chance" without giving himself a heart attack in the process. God knows he's already halfway there. </p><p>Fortunately, Baby starts first. "I, uh, I really like yer place. You been here long?"</p><p><em>Yes, good.</em> Easy questions make brain hurt less. "Um, yeah," he says. "About six years. My job is close by, and my family lives only a few hours away, so it works out pretty well." He pauses to think. "April said you just got here recently?"</p><p>"Yeah. Just came up from Arkansas."</p><p><em>Huh. </em>Brain does not compute. "I thought you were from Louisiana?"</p><p>"No, I'm from Georgia," Baby replies as if it were standard knowledge. "Why?"</p><p>"Just that April said you two went to high school in Louisiana."</p><p>"Oh, um—" He reaches to scratch his curls, but lowers his hand before his fingers make it past his earlobe. "I...moved."</p><p>Alright, Emmet will give him that. After all, it was over a decade ago. But it still doesn't stop his guts from kicking at his diaphragm like they're itching to play soccer with his frontal lobe. "Yeah, I get it. I went to college out-of-state too. Couldn't wait to be on my own." He lifts his mug again, reconsiders, gives a good blow across the surface. "But I came back for grad school. In the end, I just missed home too much. I guess not everyone can pull it off."</p><p>Baby coughs up a laugh that could easily be mistaken for a walrus choking on a fish. "Y-Yeah, I felt like that too sometimes, but you know, it was tricky with—with all…all the…gators!" He blurts out, raising his cup emphatically. "I'm real scared a'gators. Dunno how April put up with 'em all. Guess they didn't call her 'Queen of the Mississippi' for nothin'."</p><p>April could slap a paper crown on her head and dub herself "Queen of the Burger" and Emmet would be more inclined to believe it. It certainly doesn't ease his suspicion—or his somersaulting stomach—when Baby chases his story with a huge slurp of boiling hot coffee. </p><p>Well, better get this over with while they've still got internal organs. "Why don't you tell me a little about yourself instead?" He asks, funneling every last drop of confidence into his voice.</p><p>"Oh. OK. Um…" Baby's caterpillar-brow bunches in the center. "My name's Baby. I like bean burritos. My favorite color is green. And when I was a kid, I used to be able to lick my own elbow."</p><p><em>Oh my god. </em>Emmet has to clutch his mug handle to keep from channeling the spirit of Captain Jean-Luc Picard. "What about your job? What kind of work do you do?"</p><p>Another, somewhat dimmer bulb flickers over Baby's head. "Oh! That's right, I just got a construction job close by. Gonna be knockin' down some buildin's and maybe puttin' 'em back together again." He grins excitedly at Emmet, two little dimples piercing his plump cheeks. "You got a job?"</p><p><em>Is he joking or…? </em>"Uh, yeah, I teach high school Chemistry. That's how I can afford this place." Unless hopes and dreams were considered legal tender now.</p><p>So much for Baby's spark of genius. "Oh, y-yeah, of course," he laughs, blushing a bit. "That was pretty dumb of me to ask." Emmet is inclined to agree.</p><p>Bearing that in mind, he presses on. "Have you had roommates before?"</p><p>"Well, I lived with my uncle before I came up here. And, um—" Scrunching his brow once more, Baby splays his hand and pulls the fingers down one by one. "A...bunch before that, I guess?"</p><p>"And have you ever had problems paying rent on time?</p><p>"No. I can even pay early if ya want."</p><p>"What do you like to do in your spare time?"</p><p>"I go to the gym a lot." </p><p>Now Emmet feels like the dumb one. "Anything other than that?"</p><p>"Um...joggin'?"</p><p>Maybe if he facepalms hard enough, he can shield his brain from further stupidity. "Can you cook?"</p><p>Baby beams like he'd just drawn the simplest question in Final <em>Jeopardy </em>history<em>.</em> "Yeah! I make a mean mac-and-cheese. You won't even know it's from a box."</p><p>Well, that's promising. "You don't have any pets, do you?"</p><p>"Nope. Not even a goldfish."</p><p>"Do you have any problem helping out with chores?"</p><p>"I mean, I know how to push a vacuum around if that's what yer askin'."</p><p>"And you're fine with not having more than two to three people over at a time? And no strangers staying the night?" This sure as fuck isn't going to turn into happy hour at O'Hara's Irish pub.</p><p>"That's cool by me. Only folks I know are you an' April, and April's girlfriend, sort of. But if you all wanna have a party, I can whip up a plate a'nachos that'll knock yer socks off." Those silly dimples return with a vengeance, and suddenly caffeine isn't the only thing causing Emmet's pulse to race.</p><p>"I'll, uh—I'll keep that in mind." Whatever's left of it by the time he's scalded it stupid with molten java juice.</p><p>"April said some real nice things about ya, by the way," Baby gushes. "You guys must be pretty good friends."</p><p>Emmet almost chokes up his coffee. "That—That sounds like April, alright." If April had attempted to lobotomize herself with a screwdriver.</p><p>"Me an' her used to be best friends, too, back in the day. Still are, I guess."</p><p>Is that supposed to make him jealous? "Um—that's—"</p><p>"I mean, I ain't seen her since I...moved away. But when we met up the other night, she hugged me so hard I thought I was gonna break in half."</p><p>Maybe if she'd hugged him harder, Emmet wouldn't be in this situation. "Sounds like you're the ones who are pretty close."</p><p>"Thick as thieves. Like two beans in a can."</p><p>"Peas in a pod?"</p><p>"Yeah, what you said. Not seein' her for so long was like…"</p><p>Slowly, Baby's smile slips away and his gaze sinks to the table, and if Emmet looks closely enough, he thinks he can see tears well up in his big blue eyes. "You ever stare into the sun?" He asks, in a hush.</p><p>Emmet furrows his brow. "...No." Not without good reason, and certainly not with a prescription the strength of a magnifying glass. "Why?"</p><p>"I think...losin' someone is kinda like that. It burns real bad, and maybe you'll cry or wish you never looked in the first place, but when you close yer eyes tight all you see is this pretty glow, an' you start to miss it, an' you think maybe you can try lookin' again sometime, when you're stronger and smart enough to know how to do it right."</p><p>He scrubs at the corner of one eye, then looks to Emmet and fixes him with a smile so bright it could light an entire galaxy. "I'm so happy me an' April are back together. And I'm really lookin' forward to bein' yer friend too. We can be our own can of beans, all four of us."</p><p>And then, he laughs. And Emmet feels something inside him curl into a fist.</p><p>Glaring, he leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. "Well, thanks for stopping by. I'll get back to you about the apartment. April has your number, right?"</p><p>Baby's grin withers faster than a neglected houseplant. "Oh. Um. I—I thought...April said—"</p><p>"Sorry, but I've had a lot of people come to look at the place," Emmet replies sternly. "I'm sure you understand." </p><p>He wonders if Baby does, given the way he lowers his eyes and whimpers like a puppy. "No, I get it. I'll...um...I'll wait to hear from April." Cautiously, he looks up. "Is it OK if I finish–"</p><p>"You should probably go," Emmet says. "It's getting late."</p><p>"Yeah...sure. Thanks for seein' me, by the way. I really appreciate it." And without a second glance, he stands and drags himself to the door, its hinges creaking sadly as he slips out into the darkening night.</p><p>Emmet slinks over to lock up behind him, listens for the sound of plodding footsteps to fade, then grabs his phone and punches in April's number. Deedee answers on the second ring.</p><p>"Yeadon County Morgue—you kill 'em, we chill 'em. How may I direct your call?"</p><p>"Dee, put April on," he growls. "I need to talk to her."</p><p>"Ooh, no can do. She's in the shower right now, probably hiding since I told her we'd be watching house-flipping shows tonight. How'd your meeting with her friend go?"</p><p><em>About as pleasant as feeling my stomach lining erode one atom at a time. </em>"Great, except for the fact that April forgot to tell me he's fucking <em>stacked. </em>I thought he was going to pick up the couch and start bench-pressing it with his pinkies."</p><p>Deedee giggles. "Now <em>that's</em> gotta be worth a couple bucks off rent, not to mention a hell of a lot easier to vacuum the carpet. Ooh, I wonder if he could pick it up with all of us sitting on it?"</p><p>"Well, you can keep wondering," Emmet says, pacing the floor. "Because he's not staying here."</p><p>"What? C'mon, Em..." He can picture her pouting on the other end with a bowl of popcorn in her lap and a montage of crappy houses playing on TV, and no concern whatsoever for his sanity. "He couldn't have been that bad."</p><p>Thank technology that cell phones weren't made of tinfoil, otherwise Emmet would have crushed his like an empty soda can. "<em>Bad? </em>Just looking at him gave me flashbacks to every jock who ever crammed me into a locker back in high school. I didn't know if <em>I </em>should be the one paying <em>him</em> to let <em>me </em>live here. With his muscles and his bone-crunching hands and his fake smiles and—"</p><p>"Emmet." The line goes deathly quiet. Then, gently, Deedee says, "That's not what this is about, is it?"</p><p>A wave of goosebumps blankets Emmet's arms. "Of course it is," he scoffs. "What else would it be?"</p><p>"Em, it's been almost three years. You have to let it go. You can't keep—"</p><p>"Look, just—" He digs his fingers into his temples. "Tell April her friend needs to find another apartment. She doesn't need to call me back."</p><p>"Em, wait—" But Emmet ends the call before his head has further reason to explode.</p><p><em>Fuck, this can't be happening. </em>It has to be a joke. Any second now, Deedee and April are going to burst through his door with a camera and declare him the newest internet meme. <em>Skinny Nerds Shit Their Pants: A 12-Hour Compilation. </em>No problem; he can live with that. Better to be on a prank show than a house-flipping show, right?</p><p>Then why does it feel like some horrible interior designer has broken into his brain and hammered photos of Baby all over the walls, regardless of how poorly they clash with the rest of the furniture? There he is, drinking coffee at his kitchen table. And over there, sitting on his couch with the TV remote in hand. Cooking mac-and-cheese on his stove. Laughing with his arms wrapped around all of their shoulders, like they were the very best of friends. Like things were just meant to be that way.</p><p>"Fuck." He pinches the bridge of his nose hard enough to bruise and chucks the phone onto the table, startled when it lands with a sharp <em>clink.</em> </p><p><em>Great, now what? </em>Heaving a groan, Emmet opens his eyes and looks to the source of the commotion.</p><p>Lukewarm and lonely, Baby's mug rests near the spot where he'd been sitting, the coffee inside jostling around from the phone's meteor-like impact. A small, dark splotch marrs the cream-colored tablecloth, but Emmet pays it little mind. The wash will erase it easily enough. Unlike the tingle he gets when he traces his fingers over the rim of the cup and recalls how those lips had looked pressed to the porcelain, with a constellation of freckles twinkling overhead.</p><p>He grinds the memory to dust between his teeth, and quickly empties the mug into the sink.</p><p>*****</p><p>The clock reads <em>1:53AM </em>by the time Emmet has given up trying to fall asleep. </p><p>His pillow is a fucking brick, his sheets made of sandpaper. The air is hot as the desert and cold as ice, and whenever he blinks, he sees a pair of baby blues frowning back at him, as if to ask what had gone so wrong. But Emmet knows the only mistake he'd made that day was drinking the rest of the coffee in the pot after Baby had left. He can't fathom how Deedee doesn't chainsaw her bed every night out of sheer frustration.</p><p>Rubbing his tired eyes, he rolls over and stares at the shadows that dance across his bedroom wall—leaves and branches, even the streetlamps themselves screaming at him that <em>it's not fair. </em>He should have been kinder, more understanding. He should have listened to Baby without being so eager to send him on his way, hoping that it would be enough to convince April that he'd given her friend a fighting chance when the truth was he'd never stood one to begin with.</p><p>He shivers and draws the blanket tight. </p><p>Maybe what he'd done to Baby wasn't fair. But he's suffered through too many nightmares to just sit back and watch another waltz into his life.</p><p>*****</p><p>There are three pairs of washers and dryers in the basement, two wonky coin machines and one long folding table, but frustratingly enough, none of these things seems to be working properly when Emmet decides to embark on his weekly laundry run. What better way to waste a perfectly good Sunday than fishing buttons out of the lint trap and praying the spin cycle doesn't rocket his clothing into outer space. But the icing on the cake comes when he rounds the stairwell corner with the basket in his arms and sees Baby leaning against his apartment door, large hands fiddling with the hem of his shirt. He looks up, and their eyes lock. "H-Hey."</p><p><em>I left a sock in the dryer—a pair of underwear—lost change—an anvil</em>—literally <em>anything</em> that Emmet could use as an excuse for turning tail and rushing back down the stairs. Whatever Baby will believe, and whatever will make his heart stop hammering inside his chest. </p><p>"Hey! Hey, wait! Come back!" The thunder of footsteps follows. "I just wanna talk!"</p><p>Should he toss the basket? Sure, it'll ruin his meticulous folding job, but it might help him run faster, if only for a—</p><p>"<em>Emmet!"</em></p><p>The sound of his name on Baby's lips makes every muscle in Emmet's body freeze simultaneously. </p><p><em>It's not fair. </em>Those three words tumble over in his head. <em>He can't</em>—Where does Baby get off saying it so easily? They're not friends, they're not even <em>strangers</em>—just two unfortunate guys who happened to stumble into each other through pure circumstance. Emmet had kept up his end of the favor, and it sure as hell hadn't required signing a blood contract to welcome Baby into his home. </p><p>He clenches the basket handles until the plastic bites his flesh, then pivots around and storms up the stairs again. "I already told you I'd get back to you about the apartment," he seethes, not bothering to dignify Baby with so much as a sideways glance as he pushes past. "It's only been one day." Less than that, actually, but he rounds it up for Baby's minimal thought-processing skills.</p><p>"I-I know," Baby says, hot on Emmet's heels. "But I thought maybe we just got off on the wrong foot. I wanted to try an' make it up to ya."</p><p>Emmet doesn't know what there is to make up, unless Baby could somehow give him back his time and his half-pot of fair-trade coffee that Deedee had gifted him for Teacher's Day. Perching the basket on one hip, he begins to fumble with his keys. "Look, I don't know what April promised you, but like I said, you're not the only one who's come to look at the place." He gets the door open as smoothly as possible and hurries inside, but no matter how fast he moves, Baby is always one step behind, persistent as a mosquito and every bit as irritating.</p><p>"Emmet, please—just hear me out."</p><p>Emmet strides over to the kitchen and slams the laundry basket on the table, no whiff or puff of floral-scented detergent strong enough to keep his nostrils from flaring in indignation. "Baby, I told you—"</p><p>If mistakes were as tangible as rocks, then Emmet has just foisted the equivalent of a boulder onto his back. Because the instant he turns his head, he's met with eyes so pitying even a heart as cold as the ice caps would melt. "Please, Emmet," Baby begs. "I got nowhere else to go."</p><p><em>No way. Don't you dare— </em>"You've got April's," he spits as his shaky hands pretend to file through the contents of the basket. "I'm sure she'll put you up for the time being."</p><p>"But it's not fair to her. April just moved in with her girl, an' she's already worried about me enough as it is. I can't let her know I been sleepin' in my van since I got here."</p><p><em>So? That's not my</em>—<em>wait, what did he say? </em>Stunned, Emmet turns. "You've...been living out of your van?"</p><p>Baby's freckled cheeks darken with shame, and his eyes drift to the floor. "Y-Yeah. It's—It's not even mine. My uncle is s'posed to come pick it up soon." Lifting his gaze, he flashes Emmet another helpless look. "Please, I'll do anythin'. I'll pay double rent, I'll clean the dishes every night, I'll—I'll fold yer laundry. You don't even gotta see me if you don't wanna. Whatever makes ya happy, I'll do it. Just please let me stay here."</p><p>An angry lump chokes the words from Emmet's throat. "Why didn't you say anything about it yesterday?"</p><p>Baby frowns, staring down at his feet once more. "I mean...would you?"</p><p>Emmet doesn't need to think twice to find the answer; the longer he looks at Baby, the more guilt wells up inside his chest, compassion and sorrow, pity and kindness all fighting to stake their claim, until his own worries feel as pathetic as a pinprick. <em>Shit. </em>"Alright," he exhales reluctantly, "you can stay here. For just a few months. Until you can find another place."</p><p>
  <span>"Really?" Baby sniffles. "Promise you won't tell April what I said?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Emmet nods.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those blue eyes light up like fireflies. "Oh man, that's—that's awesome! I swear you won't regret it. I'll be the best roommate ever!" Tears miles away now, he grins big and bold, and Emmet's lump grows exponentially larger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, um…Rent is $650 a month, plus your share of the utilities. Think you can manage that?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Yeah, I can definitely do that. When can I move in? Tomorrow?"</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Tomorrow?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Emmet has barely gotten over today's crisis. "How about this coming weekend? Have April give you my number. And promise me you'll put yourself up in a motel until then." Preferably one without bedbugs.</span>
</p><p>"Cross my heart," he says, and makes an <em>X</em> over his chest in case Emmet hadn't gotten the message. "April's gonna be so happy, she'll prob'ly try to carry all my stuff in herself. An' I can get us pizza for the move, an' beer, an' whatever else you need."</p><p>Some peace and quiet would be a good gift right now. That is, if his brain can come to grips with the fact that he's just accepted a walking protein shake-filled Happy Meal as his new roommate. "So...does Saturday sound good? I'll let my landlord know, and you can iron out the details with April."</p><p>"Yeah, that's great! I can't wait!"</p><p>And Emmet can't wait to stumble through the task of putting his laundry away while failing not to overanalyze every decision he's ever made in his life. "OK. I'll, um, I'll see you then?"</p><p><em>Done. Finito. Hasta mañana. Don't let the door hit you where nature split you. </em>But for some godforsaken reason, Baby only stands there and smiles. And just as Emmet is kindly about to remind him where the exit is, he lunges forward and clasps his shoulders with those bearlike paws, their weight heavy enough to make Emmet's knees buckle. "I can't thank ya again, Emmet. Yer a real great guy." </p><p>Then, with a broad grin and a much gentler pat, he turns and skips out the door, waving merrily behind him.</p><p>There are three words in Emmet's head, two voices, and one long list of doubts, but none of those things seems to bother him as much as the lingering warmth of Baby's hands, a feeling he can't shake no matter how hard he rubs his shoulders.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Inside joke - the "Yeadon County Morgue" bit is something my friend and I used to do back in high school. Also, as you can see I've been watching a lot of Star Trek lately.</p><p>Chapter name borrowed from the infamous <a href="https://youtu.be/Xv2VIEY9-A8">Chris Farley SNL skit.</a></p><p>If you liked this chapter, please leave kudos/comments or come chat with me on <a href="http://ladydorian.tumblr.com">tumblr.</a></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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